


Once upon a Pond

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Fairy Tale Style, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Once upon a time, there were two boys who skated on the same frozen pond.





	Once upon a Pond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kornevable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kornevable/gifts).



> prompt was 'once upon a time'/'on the pond'

Once upon a time, there were two boys who skated on the same frozen pond. They practiced all through the winter, until the warmth of the spring sun was enough to make the ice cracking under their weight a real danger--and even then, they still did when they could get away with it, because one of them wanted more practice and the other wouldn't let the first go out there alone. 

And then the two boys graduated, went off to pursue their hockey dreams on separate continents, and that was that.

At least, it appeared to be. But as the pond always thaws out and breaks up the still ice on the surface, so too would their feelings, every once in a while. Catching each other's highlights in the middle of a scouting video, coming across a piece of paper with a note from the other, finding a teammate with the same superstitions as the other, all opened up things the boys liked to pretend were closed, locked, and deadbolted. But the feelings would go away eventually, because they had held them so carefully before and would not admit to doing so now. 

Strong willpower cannot always overcome regret, and though these boys had plenty of the former they had enough of the latter to balance it out. It was the worst kind of regret, regret over inaction, that if only they'd moved a little faster and bolder back then, they could have had each other, could have taken an opportunity they'd whiffed on—like missing a slap shot, only much more embarrassing. But they both assumed that the opportunity was lost, without looking for the rebound on an unsteady goalie.

But, though the boys were not always wise, they were often lucky. And, funnily enough, that often counts more.

* * *

Wei is very lucky to have had a career season in his walk year, more points than he'd let himself imagine was possible given his play style, more minutes than anyone else in the KHL, and hoisting the Gagarin Cup at the end of it all. Teams are knocking on his door to let him take up one of their foreign-born player slots, and they're offering a hell of a lot of money.

He's narrowed his choices to CSKA and Slovan, not the most money but still nothing to sneeze at, in cities he'd probably prefer to live in (sorry, Omsk). It's a decision he doesn't have to end up making, though, because it turns out the New York fucking Islanders want him too. The New York Islanders of the NHL, the New York Islanders where Tatsuya plays.

(This is stupid, Wei's brain argues. You'll wash out of the NHL and what will Tatsuya think of you then? Will you just come slinking back to Europe? Tatsuya probably doesn't want to see you in the first place.)

Of course he signs. It's not as much money, even less after taxes, but it's the NHL after all. And it's not like Wei's hurting for sponsorships cash.

* * *

Two shifts into the first scrimmage game, and Wei feels like he's behind a bunch of steps but he can't afford to count them because he's fallen behind more. He'd done okay in the early practices and drills, enough to be on the second pairing of this half of the team--though that doesn't mean he's even third pairing material on the real squad. He breathes hard on the bench, pours water down gis tbroat, and at the tap on his shoukder readies himself as best he can.

Someone, he doesn't know who, tries to wall him off as soon as he gets the puck, but by some small miracle Wei manages to pivot and pass, take a glancing blow but remain on his feet. He might not be bulky, but what's on him is muscle and height and that's no kind of weight to sneeze at. Or easily knock down. 

"Fuck," says his potential teammate, and Wei is already off, slow but getting there, to set himself up for the next play.

They throw him out on the powerplay, second unit when they're handling the offensive stars gingerly (Tatsuya included) and he scores. It's not the odd garbage goal he tends to score, redirect and screen, but a hard slapper that rings true above the goalie's shoulder, off the crossbar and in.

Maybe he'll be fine here.

* * *

He hasn't had a real chance to talk to Tatsuya before he gets invited to Tatsuya's apartment in Brooklyn, to hang out with some of the other guys around their age (some of whom, like Tatsuya, remember playing in Brooklyn, when it's been--how long?) and shoot the shit.

Wei's English is passable, but his Russian is better, so he hitches a ride with a couple of guys from St. Petersburg, Orlov and Volchenkov. They're nice, excited to swap stories about Russian night clubs and tell him where he can get the best babka in the city, a fact on which they clearly disagree.

It's not that Wei is avoiding spending time alone with Tatsuya. It's just--what would they say? In any language? (Thoughts of trying to teach Tatsuya Cantonese, way back when, filter through his mind, of making Tatsuya say the syllables over and over, watching his mouth and forgetting to listen because he was too preoccupied with those lips and that jaw.)

What is there to say?

But why did Wei cross an ocean to be here, if he’s only going to say as much to Tatsuya as he has since high school, if he’s going to keep his mouth shut?

Tatsuya has a small patio, big enough for two or maybe three people if you squeeze, but prime real estate in a trendy neighborhood. The gathering is dissipating when he heads out, to get a better look at the view now that it’s night and now that everyone’s not crowding around to see it. And because he knows how to make himself available to Tatsuya, how to wait and place his signals so that Tatsuya follows. He wouldn’t forget that.

“Hi,” Tatsuya says, before Wei can swallow a sip of his water. 

He is still gorgeous, not that Wei’s ever stopped noticing that. But up close, where he can see the small wrinkles gathering at the corner of Tatsuya’s eye, the faded scar still there on his thumb, the way he moves his mouth, makes everything more real, less unnerving but more fraught. 

“Hi,” Wei says. “Thanks for the invite.”

Tatsuya inclines his head. He hasn’t gotten much taller, if at all, since their high school days. That was so long ago--does he even know Tatsuya anymore?

“It’s been ages,” Tatsuya says, touching Wei lightly on the arm. 

Wei’s no longer so inhibited as to ignore this kind of signal, and Tatsuya knows--has to know--how well Wei knows the way he used to speak with gestures.

The kiss is worth the wait.


End file.
